


Lamentations

by oceansinmychest



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Baptism, Bathing/Washing, Lamentation, One Shot, Partial Nudity, Season/Series 02, mild nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 17:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15689919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: The Godly and the Godless look for miracles in all the wrong places.{ Post S2, a Serena Joy-centered fic. }





	Lamentations

**Author's Note:**

> I find Serena Joy to be such an enthralling character. While she's done terrible wrong, her flaws and complexities attract me to her. And ouch, can we talk about what happened to her in S2???

Stripped of blue, Serena Joy stands nude. Once upon a time, she had been a pretty, young thing, fit for the TV screen. She avoids her shame in the bathroom mirror. Her corncob hair falls to her shoulders. She’s quick to pin it up. To put herself (or someone) on the cross. Her paleness makes her skin crawl. She presses her bony fingers to her lips. It’s either that or the nicotine withdrawal’s stone-cold shivers.

She can’t quite make contact with herself. For the first time since adolescence, she feels alienated from her body.

Mrs. Waterford, devoid of her own name, was the youngest daughter of a preacher. She wasn’t some curious babe belonging to the Virgin Mary. Still, she went and unlocked the thirteenth door: her voice did her in. She’ll never be a reverent Madonna.

Now, in solitude, Serena weeps those Mary Magdalene tears. Fred hates when she cries. He’s told her how ugly it makes her. In her most vulnerable state, only a husband may see his wife. She sucks in the air with a deep, dry heave. All that sole devotion once blinded her. After all, she wrote the fucking book.

The array of Roman candles on the ledge flicker. A myriad of shadows dance across the wall. She beckons in autumn’s chill with the cracked window, desperate to taste something real.

Gauze hides her fresh failure though the blood leaks through. A professional cut. The phantom itch of her lost finger calls to her. A nip of whiskey could alleviate the pain, but not the guilt. She inspects the bandages that have bled through, too embarrassed – too proud (such a sweet sinner) – to ask for assistance. Thoughts of impurity cast aside, it’s time to come clean.

The marble basin fills. Testing the temperature with her wrist, the way her mother taught her, Serena Joy keeps her gaze downcast. Temporary defeat unsettles her: a woman so gorged on her own bitterness. At first, she runs it too cold. Then, too hot. She settles on the heat. At least it compels her to feel rather than to ache.

If Fred demanded sacrifices, then so be it. For Gilead, for every innocent child, brought into this new world.

 _This is everything a wife could ask for,_ Mrs. Waterford attempts to console herself. Loneliness rots her soul. Praises, however, are sung too sharply. He never asks her to play with him. How many tiles **were** required to start?

The claw-footed tub beckons for a body. Hers just so happens to be the sacrifice.

Docile doesn’t suit her. Sinking like a stone in the sea, Serena Joy steps in. From every movement, the water ripples. This weight on her shoulder contributes to a massive pressure. She dwells on rewriting legislation again, but she’s gone and burned all her bridges. 

Submersion ensues. Her arms, toned from her lost life and not her botanic one, envelop her knees which draw in close to her chest. She doesn’t care that the bandages are soaked. Her breasts press against her. There is too much bitterness in her to give a damn.

Every pleasant memory is washed over by a more violent one. Floating along the River Styx recalls lectures about Greek Mythology. Now, it’s all sacrilege. She swallows the memory. Digests it with the growing discomfort of being in her own skin. Unable to hold still and relax, she writhes. This bath does her little good.

Splash, splash. How she wishes to bathe her baby girl and tell her that everything will be alright, baptisms aside. She hugs herself. In scorn, she reflects on how men go off like a bomb with Gilead as twisted as a handmaid’s (hangman’s) knot (noose). Tick, tick, **boom**.

This new world has its dogma and without any power, her televised praise cast aside, Serena Joy realizes how wrong it is. She’s the discontent wife, drowning herself to feel a little something. Under the water, she thrashes most violently. Her petty lungs scream for air. Bubbles fly up to the surface.

The Godly and the Godless look for miracles in all the wrong places.

_Breathe._

Gasping, she breaks the surface. Claws at her throat. Water floods the floor, the wood bound to suffer. A pocketful of stones won’t make the world a better place, only eradicate her presence. She coughs and she gags, spitting up saliva along with the too-hot water that becomes luke-warm.

“I _tried_ ,” Serena tells herself in consolation, echoing what she told Offred. A part of her yearns for the Handmaid’s presence.

Her voice has become ghostly, hoarse (harsh) from cigarettes and disuse.

An empty room offers no response.

It’s only her, the ugly wallpaper, and her disgrace.


End file.
